


Object Permanence

by Phosphors (Bidawee)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Phosphors
Summary: George has held off on committing to Florida for some time. Dream wants him to see how good life could be there.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 194





	Object Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is such a mess. I have been proofreading it for three days now and I can't make it any better.
> 
> If Dream and/or George ever change their stance on fanfiction, this story will be modified/deleted to comply with their wishes. The characters in this fic are based on their personas; I in no way want to insinuate they are together or wish to meddle in their real-life affairs.
> 
> Also: I'm leaving it on unrestricted for now but that may change. If you are ever unable to access this fic in the future, you may need to register with an account on the archive.

Google auto-fills the search bar when he looks up the word Florida. 

**“florida flights from heathrow”** is always the first result.

He’s got one page bookmarked and a search history full of investigative work. Random websites he visits have advertisements tucked in the side columns for airlines flying south. They get more specific with every rabbit hole he jumps down, becoming shoulder devils that tempt George to do something stupid and impulsive with his growing fortune.

Dream has aided and abetted the whole process. He’s pretty sure that any attempts to go elsewhere would end with Dream crossing the ocean and bringing George back himself. If not for him, then George wouldn’t have narrowed a time to visit down to a year, then a month, then a week and a half when he could afford to take time off. He wouldn’t have researched flight options and picked out seats if Dream wasn’t on the call with him, giving his opinions. George can’t even take credit for the stroke of pride he feels when he gets the confirmation email. His arrival in the States will be the fruit of Dream’s labour.

As for why it took so long, he can’t say. Maybe it has something to do with those feelings for Dream that have found the perfect conditions to grow, thriving in late-night calls and the time spent behind the scenes of the SMP, having dumb fun for the pleasure of no one but themselves. It reached a boiling point a few months ago and has since remained at that temperature. Distance had something to do with it; every time they interact it’s inconclusive, brokered through an app or a call through their cell-providers. If he were to go there now and be with him, they’d lose that intermediary. He might say something he can’t even admit to himself.

A part of him is afraid that he won’t want to come home.

  
  


“Are you bringing your computer?”

“Nope. You said it yourself: it’s a vacation. A well-needed break.” He pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he rifts through his dresser, on the hunt for cool items of clothing. 

“...You sure?”

“Well, do I need to? It’s only a week.” 

There’s a grumble from the other end. If he had to guess, it’s Dream airing his frustration over the reminder that George isn’t staying a month like he wanted. Letting Dream help him out with packing was his way of saying sorry, even if it’s more for his benefit than Dream’s.

“You don’t want to stream at all? You won’t be able to if you don’t.”

“I can always just take over your computer.”

“What if you’re here longer than you think?”

“A few days won’t matter.” He pulls out a light-grey crewneck by the collar. “Hey, should I bring a sweater?”

“If you want to.”

“Will I need it?”

“Aircon gets a bit much sometimes, but that’s just me. You can always overpack.”

George examines it, turning it inside-out and then checking for any signs that it needs to be washed. “I don’t want to bring too many bags with me.”

“You’re fine.”

George drops it into the ‘take’ pile. More of a heap than a pile. It’s gluttonous for more, even if any bags of his would struggle to fit it all as is.

He moves the phone from his shoulder to his hand, speaking directly to it. “I’ll need a hat, right?”

“We have hats here.”

“Then what else am I missing?” George thinks aloud, his teeth balancing on his bottom lip. “Cords. I need chargers. Do you use different plugs there?”

“Um. I think we have adapters here.” He can hear Dream rift through something in the background. Then a loud thump. He must’ve dropped the phone. “-rry. Sorry.”

“Is that a yes for the adapters?”

“Yeah, I got you covered.”

George lowers the phone, staring at the culmination of the last hour’s hard work. All he’s got to show for it is a haphazard patchwork of fabric. One of his drawers has been completely gutted, leaving behind a very shallow layer of undershirts. He’s not sure why Dream insists he brings so much stuff when he’s going to have to lug it around. 

He tells Dream as such. “I still think I’m bringing too much.”

“Nah. Trust me, you’ll be happy you did.”

  
  


The checkpoints at immigration and customs wear him out quickly. He stutters through the bombardment of question, on edge from the fear that they will poke holes in his story and turn him away. “Staying with a friend,” sounds like such an incomplete answer, so colour him surprised when the officer takes it and grants him admission, moving him onto the next leg of his journey with a new stamp in his passport. By then, he’s completely exhausted. Also starving, but not enough to fork over money for overpriced pastries from the food chains stacked up by the terminals, there like a siren’s song for the hungry travellers passing by. 

Dodging people left and right, he somehow manages to wrangle his phone out and turn off airplane mode without bumping into someone. Clicking the circle indicator at the corner of the app, he opens the most recent message from the group chat and begins the process of trying to make words with his thumbs. Proper grammar is the least of his concerns.

_` Im here` _

_`Come save me please` _

It’s the most coherent thing he can send to them right now. If he’s not focusing one-hundred percent of his energy on navigating the signage pointing him to the baggage claim, then he’s bound to end up on the other side of the airport. 

Amid the chaos, the only thing other than adrenaline keeping him awake is the anticipation of seeing them in the flesh. He keeps his legs moving, finding the glowing blue banner for the information desk in the distance and following it to the carousel. There’s already a surplus of people there, some of them looking as rumpled as he feels. They’re not all from the same flight, but he can easily pick out who’s been on a plane for three hours versus ten.

After a few minutes, there’s the sound of solid items passing through the plastic flaps and the first of many suitcases and duffle bags start wheeling around on the conveyor belt. He keeps an eye out for his blue tag as he scrolls through the messages on his phone, looking for updates.

_` where are you?` _

George tips his head up to read the monitor. The basic flight details are listed, right next to a big, flickering number.

_`Baggage claim 10` _

_`By the arrivals info desk` _

Just as he looks up, he locates his bag crawling by. Taking it by the handle, it heaves it off of the belt, giving it a quick look-over to make sure everything is in place. It doesn’t look like the zipper has been moved and a quick push tells him that the wheels are in working fashion. All things considered, it’s been an easy trip. He can sit back and wait for the first time in twelve hours.

Everyone else there is clumped into groups, chatting amongst themselves with the leisure that’s expected with a vacation down south or the tried experience of someone on a company retreat. George tucks his shoulders in, trying to look inconspicuous as he holds tightly onto his phone. Eventually, he moves to make way for the people trying to retrieve their bags, standing just outside the gates bordering the claim area in the hopes it will make it easier for them to find him.

It’s hard to be the lookout when his eyes sting with interrupted sleep. Long-distance vision has become indecipherable if he’s not actively focusing. If it weren’t for Dream’s voice, he would have no way of anticipating the body crashing into him, enveloping him in a tight hug before he can get more than a word in.

“George!”

He’s smothered, unsure if he’s laughing into Dream’s chest or his stomach. He has no idea where Dream’s arms end and his body begins and trying to reciprocate is hard when he can’t maneuver his limbs without smacking into something solid. After some trial and error, he finds the column of Dream’s neck he holds on for dear life. 

Dream was saying something to him--is still talking, actually. George missed all of it. He’s incapable of thinking about anything other than the feeling of Dream pressing them together, his hair tickling the shell of George’s ear. They’re sensations that can’t be imagined, only felt, and he’s wondered for so long.

Sapnap is hanging just behind them, waiting his turn. George eventually notices him over the side of Dream’s bicep, looking a bit intimidated by the size of the gesture. It’s only fair to end the hug there, giving him the attention he deserves.

“Hey, Sap.” _Wrong_ , his brain screams at him. It flings another name at him at a force that could induce whiplash. “Wait. Nick. I should be saying Nick.”

Sapnap breaks the tension with a laugh. “It’s okay. Even we still haven’t figured it out.” He gestures between Dream and him with one finger. “Call me whatever you want.”

George misjudges the angle of the hug and almost gets an elbow to the gut. “Good to see you,” he says, feeling the air get punched out of him as he’s clutched close to him.

The part he was dreading with nervous excitement is finally over. Something that was always missing from their Discord calls is finally there. He crossed the sea to be physically present in a virtual relationship, somehow managing to underestimate what it would be like to have them there, alive under his fingers for him to hold. It’s pretty fucking great.

When Nick--that’s supposed to be right but _no_ it’s not--lets go, it all begins to chimney out of him.

“I can’t believe--like, you’re here!” He looks at Dream, mirroring the smile on his face. “You’re here.” He’s too giddy to make anything more than a surface-level observation right now, but it looks like the others are in a similar predicament.

Dream (calling him Clay would be like wearing the wrong size shoe) grabs him by the shoulder. “Yeah, we are,” he says, flushed and out of breath. “Finally.” 

“Finally,” George repeats, and it feels like closure on such a big chapter of their lives. It’s a lot to unpack right now, when there are hundreds of people around them that are witnesses to this consecration. He rubs at his forehead as an excuse to break eye contact. “So are we, uh--”

“Yes! Here, let me grab your things.” Dream hefts George’s bag up, so caught up in his excitement that he doesn’t notice the wheels. George, touched by the courtesy and more than thankful to not have to lug it around himself, doesn’t correct him. He just about loses sight of him as he cuts through the airport crowds and rental car lines, intent on making it to the parking lot first.

Sapnap slams into his side as they begin walking. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. He’s been talking nonstop all morning. Pretty sure he didn’t sleep a wink.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“Well, you’re here,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

A gust of heat sweeps by. Even in the shade of the building, he can feel it rising up from the concrete as they step outside. He already regrets bringing that sweater.

  
  


As an apology to Sapnap, George takes the backseat on the ride over. He spends most of it slumped down into his seat, his forehead pressed to the window as the drowsiness returns. The conditions are perfect for sleep, what with the interior trapping all that heat from outside and the vibrations from the engine lulling his brain and body. Dream and Sapnap are talking but he doesn’t at all contribute to the conversation. Any time his name is called, he blindly agrees with what they’re saying and hopes it isn’t a question.

Just as he’s about to dip out, he hears a car door slam and realizes they aren’t moving. It’s hard to get his eyes to open and stay open, but the brief glimpses he gets tells him that they’re in a neighbourhood. They’re “home,” as Dream would say.

The disorientation means his reaction time has slowed to a crawl. By the time he realizes his door has opened, there’s a hand on his arm that’s so hot it’s comparable to an iron brand. George jerks away, pushing air out through his teeth. 

“Come on sleeping beauty, need to take you on the tour,” Sapnap says.

“Mm.” He rubs at his eyes, pressing the release for his seatbelt with his other hand. 

Sapnap is crowding the door and has to be pushed away before George can swing his legs out. What starts as an annoyance becomes a useful crutch when he misjudges his step and almost falls flat on his face, saved by the last-minute arm that curves out to grab him by the chest. Sapnap gets a laugh at his expense, which is fair. 

Inside is a bit better. It’s cooler, for one. What’s most captivating is seeing how well-utilized the space is. Dream said they, quote, “rented a house,” but the word ‘house’ is as basic as descriptors go. It couldn’t articulate the design of the floor plan or the new appliances that make it look like the asset of a celebrity. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sure, it’s no _mansion,_ nor is the interior design something a home renovation episode would pan cameras around--it’s lacking a bit in the furniture department for that. But it shows how far they’ve come. Them being Sapnap and Dream. Not him, of course. He had no part in arranging this.

He hopes the awe is plain on his face. “How long have you been here again?” he asks Sapnap.

“Geez, how long has it been?” Sapnap says to himself. “Um, few weeks? No, longer than that probably. Dream?”

Dream doesn’t respond, probably because he’s outside closing the trunk. George picks up the slack for him. “Do you like being here?” he asks.

“Oh, I love it! Much better than I had at home. My other home,” he clarifies. “It’s uh--spacier? Yeah, spacier and I got Dream here, so I get to hang out with my best friend all day.”

With a sell like that, George can’t help but be jealous.

“It’s really nice.” He knows Dream has the money to go into the market looking for more than a fixer-upper but he could have never imagined it would be something so nice. 

Dream enters behind them, kicking his shoes off. George’s suitcase is pushed up against the mudroom wall, by the ottoman.

“What do you think?” Dream asks, gesturing with the lift of his chin.

“I love it.”

“Great, huh? Your room’s upstairs George.”

A totally normal thing to say, so George doesn’t know why he singles it out. “My room?”

“Of course. Did you think we would make you sleep on the couch?”

He’s joking, but the couch looks spacious enough to accommodate him. A few years ago he would _beg_ to sleep on that couch. It’s one he could stretch his legs out and still have room. 

Upstairs is just as nice. The ceiling pushes up, carrying their voices. There’s so much to look at and only a small window of time for him to do so while they’re on the tour. He nearly smacks clean into Dream because he’s trying to peer into the open door at the end of the hall, completely missing the room he’s supposed to be going into. It’s shelved into the wall, out of sight. 

“In here, George.” Dream pulls at his arm for added emphasis. His hand is so big that it really needs to press in to hold George firm, a dizzying thought.

The room in question is spacious, more than accommodating for a desk set-up with room to spare. It’s void of much furniture, save for a bed and an end dresser with nothing in it. Dream proves it by sliding open the middle drawer, showing him the empty compartments painted a nice eggshell white.

“This can be your room when you come live here.”

“Live here?” he says with a nervous laugh, even if the topic is by no means new to him. 

“Yeah. Feel free to unpack your stuff,” Dream says, pushing the drawer shut until it clicks.

“Maybe later,” George mumbles, eyeing up the made bed. A long flight in uncomfortable seats has made it look irresistible to him. He could dive into it right now, sinking into the deep end of comfort and not coming back up for _days._

Dream reaches down to take his bag from him. The moment George realizes what he’s doing, he unhooks his fingers from the velcro clasp and lets it fall into Dream’s hand.

“Sheets are done. Go lie down,” Dream says.

“You won’t mind?”

He tousles George’s hair, sticking up the ends that aren’t already messed. “I don’t think you’ll make it much longer, honestly.”

Truer words can’t be said. The urge to yawn is there but George waits until Dream leaves to do so. It felt rude to reveal how tired he was in the airport, when both Dream and Sapnap were so enthused to see him. He’s sure they know--he’s not exactly his normal self. It’s especially apparent now, when gravity feels like it’s twice its normal strength.

George pulls the covers back, already so preoccupied with the idea of lying down that he can’t fathom changing his clothes. A distant voice tells him he’ll regret it later but it loses its momentum once he’s flat to the mattress, head stuck to the pillow. He succumbs to how soft and pliant it is, cocooning his body in cotton that hugs every limb. It stuffs his mind with emptiness.

Dream only comes in one more time with his other bag and suitcase. He leaves them by the door, closing it slowly so that it doesn’t creak. George barely notices, falling into a catatonic state. 

  
  


It’s a slog to wake up. Sleep won’t let him go so easily, seeping into his appendages until they’re as heavy and mindless as rocks. If not for the room’s temperature, which is uncomfortably warmer than average, it would be too hard to come up for air. Unfortunately, he’s hot enough to be sweating through his shirt, even as he hears the whirr of the air conditioning unit in the background working to combat it.

His arm strikes out to touch his end table and grab his phone. It ends up swishing through empty air, smacking against the frame and waking him up with the fresh serving of pain that twangs up to his shoulder. He tries again, achieving the same result. 

Did he move the end table?

It takes him a minute to realize he isn’t in his room. These aren’t his blankets--they have a different smell and texture. He doesn’t have air conditioning. The walls’ colours are too soft. His poor brain can’t comprehend where he’s ended up. It summons pictures of home, blurring the two places into one mash of incoherent shapes that interlink and collide into each other.

He sits up against the headboard, tilting his head to the side until he hears the joints pop. Slowly, the events of the day come back to him. A lot of time has passed since then; outside is pitch black now. There are insects outside of his window, chirping and croaking in the night. They’re not what he’s used to hearing, which makes their cacophony too loud to ignore. If he tries, he can single out a muffled voice from downstairs out of the pollution, which is the final piece of the puzzle. It gives him the motivation to get out of bed to join them. 

The room layout is unfamiliar to him and he’s cautious of bumping into something unintended. It’s a personal victory to make it to the door, sleep-heavy and confused, but still on both feet. He takes his time on the stairs, eyes adjusting to the brightness that’s beaming out the television. The whole of the ground floor is bleached of colour, the eyestrain immense because of the single light source.

Sapnap notices him first, sticking an arm out and waving. “Eyo!” He’s perched on the couch, downing what’s left of the glass in hand.

“Hi.”

Sapnap pats the cushion beside him, shoving the pillow that was there to make space. “Come sit down. You look like you’re going to fall over.”

“He’s done nothing but sit for hours.” Dream appears to the side, startling George into rising on his toes. The low light pulls down the shadows on his face. “How’re you feeling?”

A bit nauseous. Unable to concentrate on anything. Irritated by how loud the bugs are here. “Uh, good. Good.”

“We saved dinner for you,” Dream says, throwing a thumb back to the kitchen. “Want me to go heat it up?”

He’s grateful, but can’t miss the opportunity to poke fun. “You two can cook?” The words practically fall into his hands, part of an old routine.

Sapanp’s mouth twists into a crooked grin. “I’m sure your cooking is nothing to write home about either, Georgie.”

Dream has already left for the kitchen. George follows, but stops at the dining room to acquaint himself with the space. He can tell how new it is by the unmarred furniture; it’s not a well-loved space like his kitchen, with its scratched up floors and the wobbly table legs of its centerpiece. If the walls weren’t so bare here, it wouldn’t be half bad. He guesses the two of them haven’t had a lot of time to interior decorate. It might never have come as an impulse to begin with.

There’s a sound of three beeps, followed by the low, incoherent sound of the microwave. Dream walks around the counter, standing under the arch that connects the open space to the front hallway.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Not bad. Groggy, I guess.” He rubs at his eyes. A spec of sleep dust twinkles as it falls away.

“You still look tired.”

“He looks like shit! What’d they do to you on the plane?” Sapnap yells, his voice reverberating.

“It was a long flight!” responds George. He spent half of it with his legs in strange configurations all because the people in front of and behind him had some combined effort to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

Sapnap keeps on him. “You’re going to sleep all day tomorrow too, aren’t you?” 

“What’s different there?” Dream joins in.

Exasperated, George ducks his head down. “You just can’t shut up about that, can you? I’m jet lagged, it’s not my fault.”

A loud beep silences what Dream is about to say. He returns to the kitchen, giving George the time to sit down and compose himself. Three of the fingers on his left hand sprawl out, feeling the surface of the table. He can’t believe it’s real, that he’s actually here. 

With the microwave door open, the smell of food wafts its way over to him. His stomach turns cavernous, ready to inhale whatever gets put in front of him. It happens to be a plate of noodles, thick with sauce. Simple, but also mouthwatering right now, when he’s gone for so long without.

Dream is holding the butt-end of a fork out for George, looking proud of himself. 

“Not plastic cutlery?” George taunts as he takes it from him, immediately stabbing the prongs into the meal. Steam erupts out from the mound in a puffy cloud.

“Shut up.” He throws a napkin George’s way. “There’s uh--we do have paper plates. Dishwasher is broken.”

George gives him a side-eye, but isn’t about to joke about the emotional labour of hand washing dishes when he could be eating. He’s above stuffing his face, especially in the company of others, but he doesn’t take his time eating either. Dream takes the seat across from him, scrolling through messages on his phone as George works away on the plate.

He’s half-way finished--the surface of his tongue burned from not waiting for it to sufficiently cool down--when the absurdity of what’s happening catches up to him. He swallows what’s in his mouth. “What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

George does the math in his head. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Dream chuckles. “I didn’t want to. You looked peaceful.”

The bite he was swallowing gets caught in his throat. Sputtering, George tries to dislodge the discomforting feeling on the back of his tongue.

“Careful,” Dream mutters as he starts coughing.

“‘m fine.” He mashes a hand into his chest. “One sec.” The chair screeches as he pushes back, trying to free up more space between himself and the table. 

He eventually gets to a presentable state, long after his throat has been scratched up. “Can I get a glass of water?” he rasps, already lifting himself from the table with one arm.

Dream is up just as quickly. “Yeah yeah, of course. You sure it’s water you want?”

“What else’ve you got?”

Dream is already throwing open the fridge, rooting through it. The side shelving is bare, save for a single vial of salad dressing that George can’t identify. “Uhh let’s see…mostly soda, to be honest. Pretty sure Sapnap's still got a couple beers back there too.”

Beer would be a dumb idea, but he can’t say he doesn’t find the thought funny. “Water is fine, thanks.”

George hears the clink of glass objects. “You sure? What’s ours is yours.” 

“I’m sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

Water by his side, he finishes up what was supposed to be dinner without any more issues. It’s still a weird way to christen his first day (night?) there--and he knows this is going to be a memory his brain will think is falsified when he wakes up tomorrow--but he’s never seen Dream so happy. It’s more healing than any of the comforts provided, knowing how wanted he is.

  
  


He feels like hot garbage the next day, unable to find a culprit to blame. He chalks it up to a bunch of bad decisions on his part (like staying up late with Dream, having conversations about things he can’t remember as he ate past his fill) and the residual curse of jetlag, and leaves it there.

Dream looks like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep, though he’s got none of the energy deprivation to show for it. George is all but hustled into his room as soon as he can stand straight, greeted by the sight of how large it is. There’s acoustic foam stuck up on the walls and a desk big enough to accommodate two monitors. Work-related equipment aside, it’s as simple as the rest of the house. The only decoration it's got that isn’t merch-related is a single framed picture of what could be a younger Dream resting on top of the dresser. The boy in the photo has a head of light blond hair, giving a big grin in front of a body of water. It’s cute, but he looks away before Dream notices him staring.

Dream gives him a short tour of his setup, letting George sit in his chair and test out of the mouse sensitivity as he talks about logistics. He’s sure it’s interesting--Dream has a knack for these things--but while he’s distracted with that, George has free rein over everything on his desktop. Socials, files, everything. He spends most of the time entertaining himself by clicking through screens, managing to get all the way to Twitter before Dream yanks on his sleeve.

“Not a chance.”

“What? It’d be funny.”

“No.” Dream is insistent on removing him from the chair, spinning him around and giving him a playful shove. Knowing it’s a fight he would immediately lose, George stands up and lets Dream take his place.

“What do you think? Is it similar to yours?” 

“A bit. Your mic is farther away.”

“Used to be a lot worse, remember?”

George laughs, averting his eyes. “Yeah. Feels like a long time.”

“Almost as long as it took to get you here.”

He feels his teeth poke out in a smile. “It wasn’t that long.”

“Oh _come on.”_ Dream leans far back, stretching his legs out until they almost touch his mini-fridge. “You kept making excuses. I thought you just didn’t like me.”

He pulls a face. “No.”

 _“Yes._ Just admit it.” He’s trying to veil the real hurt in his voice behind false hurt. George knows him well enough to see through it.

“I’m here now.” 

“Yeah, for like a week and a half.”

“That’s not long enough for you?”

“You kidding? Forever wouldn’t be long enough.” He seems to realize half-way through speaking how loaded a sentence it is. All of his confidence leaves on the next breath. He breaks eye contact, carding a hand through his hair.

George laughs but it isn’t enough to defuse the growing tension. He takes a look around the room, trying to find a conversation starter. The first thing that comes to mind is the photo he saw when he walked in.

“Is that you?” He points at the frame, though Dream isn’t looking at him to notice.

“What?”

“The photo.”

“Oh. That.” The tips of his ears pinken. “Yeah. My mom made sure I took it with me.”

“Your _hair.”_ He’s seen younger Dream before, but not that young. And certainly not looking like that.

His laughter is contagious. “I know, I know.”

With the added context, the woman in the photo is recognizable as Dream’s mother; albeit, much, much younger. She’s got a matching life jacket on and is flashing a thumbs-up at the camera.

“Do you prefer living on your own like this?” George asks. He keeps his voice light, hoping to touch, not push.

Dream looks up from his hands. “Yeah. Makes everything feel a lot more real.”

“How long are you guys renting for?”

“Well, the first month or so went well. Not sure about signing a longer lease, but we’ll see. It depends on our living situation going forward.”

George turns away from the photo, committing it to memory. It’s not something that would be shared when he was miles away, when the hours between their continents always made them feel a bit like strangers. Being here makes him aware of what wasn’t possible; what he didn’t know, because it would be too intimate. It was as much a blessing as it was a curse. 

“Are you just going to stand there or will you go grab a chair?” Dream says, swaying back and forth in his chair. His hands are lightly gripping the armrests.

“You about to go live?”

“Yeah. Hopefully. Soon.”

“Do I get to join?”

“If you sit down. It’s weird when you’re lingering like that.”

“Where do I--”

“Check your closet. Or just steal from Sapnap. He can deal with it.”

Grinning, he’s down the stairs before Dream can even turn around.

  
  


He’s been staring up at the living room ceiling for so long that imaginary black specs are manifesting. He points up at one, tracing it with his finger as it jumps in and out of his vision.

“It’s like an asylum in here.”

“Constructive criticism _only,”_ says Sapnap, beside him. He’s making much better use of the downtime than George is, his face buried into his phone.

“Fine. This room is empty and boring and it needs more stuff on the walls to look less empty and boring.”

“Go talk to Dream.”

“He’s acting weird.”

“I told him to give you some space.”

George wrinkles his nose, rolling onto his stomach. “Why’d ya do that?”

“Because he’s crowding you.”

“No he’s not.”

“You two have been joined at the hip all day today and all day yesterday. If I didn’t barge in on your stream you would’ve gone into the night.”

“I thought seeing you guys was the reason for me coming here.”

“What if I want to hang with you?” He looks up at George, one eyebrow cocked.

“We’re hanging out,” George says lamely. They started off talking and drifted into absence, but that didn’t mean it stopped being quality time.

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I know you two have got your thing, but I also know that Dream gets overbearing sometimes. He really wants you to like it here so you’ll stay.”

George lifts his head, checking to see if Dream’s nearby and at a potential risk to overhear. Nothing. He looks back at Sapnap. “What about you?”

“Me?” He points a finger at his chest, gently pressing his shirt in. “Well, I want that too. But I know you got stuff going on.”

“It’s a lot to think about.”

“It is.”

“I have to get citizenship. I have to migrate.” His voice wobbles with stress, knowing just how much work it’s going to be. That’s without the uncertainty of wondering if he’ll even be accepted in the first place.

“No one expects you to decide all at once. Not even Dream.” Sapnap puts his phone aside with a sigh. “I’m sure you’ve already thought a lot about it. Just know we got the space, if that’s what you’re worried about. We rented this place mindful of you.”

He wishes it was as easy as that, but it’s not. If Sapnap was anything but a friend, he could tell him that his reasons for being stuck in deliberation have a lot more to do with the whole Dream situation mixed in with the general anxiety about leaving behind all he has known. But to say anything but yes to him would be a huge disappointment, so he holds his tongue.

“But hey, maybe if you move in soon we can start doing something about these fucking walls.”

  
  


He won’t acclimate to the Floridian climate in the few days he’s here but he tries to make it easier on himself by wearing the bare minimum and taking liberal sips from the water bottle he brought with him. Some of the sunscreen from his hands have transferred to the plastic casing, smeared all over like a kid’s finger painting.

He’s never been a big fan of beaches. The one he visited at home were always quite a drive away and very miserable looking. Florida’s is decidedly better. It’s well-groomed for a public beach. Still a bit of a drive, but it isn’t the only place they’re going to today. 

George swallows the bite he’s chewing, listening to the seagulls caw from above as they circle the spots with mounted umbrellas, looking for scraps to wolf down. Dream is beside him, having already finished lunch, hands flat on his chest as he relaxes. George had tried to take a similar position on his back earlier on but couldn’t stand the grit of the sand scratching him for long.

“You’re a slow eater,” Dream observes. George didn’t know he was watching; it’s hard to when he’s got sunglasses on. He offered George a pair earlier, which he denied out of politeness. He kinda wishes he took them when he had the chance. 

“I’m enjoying the moment.”

Dream props himself up on his arms. “What? The sandwich or the beach?”

“Both.” They complement each other nicely, even as crude as his patch-job of a meal is. It doesn’t need to be anything more than that. It’s got all the etiquette of a picnic here.

Sapnap is nowhere to be seen. Just a few minutes ago he was down by the tide. “To cool off,” he said. George squints, but he can’t see his head of hair, just a few kids making sandcastles and playing around with clunky plastic equipment under their parents’ careful surveillance. It’s like something you’d see on a postcard.

George sticks his legs out, heels digging into the hot sand. “It must be nice to live here.”

“It is,” says Dream, softly.

“Do you go to beaches a lot?”

“Um. No? Not really. Unless it’s like, a family outing or something.” He lies back down, turning his head to the side so he can continue to talk with George. “Never really had a reason to.”

“Do you like it?”

“I...like playing video games. It’s my full-time job.”

George chuckles. “Do you ever go outside?”

“Sometimes. I have a social life. I go shopping.” Proving George’s point.

George takes the finishing bites, only leaving behind a thin slice of crust which he bundles up and puts aside. He joins Dream in lying down, using his bag as a pillow so he doesn’t hear sand swishing around beside his ear.

“If I lived here, I’d just stay outside all day,” he declares, knowing that’s expecting way too much of him and could never be anything more than a possibility.

Dream laughs.

There are moments of quiet. Like today, when the passenger windows are down and his hair is swept to the side by the air pushing in. The wind makes it too loud to talk so the car radio does it for them, belting tunes that have a distinctive summer vibe to them. Dream’s is riding shotgun--George all but pushed him out the backseat when he tried to leave Sapnap alone up there--and occasionally looking back at him using the side mirror. George meets him with a timid smile.

They’re going out grocery shopping, all because George made a throwaway joke about sampling the local cuisine. He gets the envious role of pushing the cart when they get there. It frees the other two up to show him around, asking him how familiar it is (it’s a grocery store, he doesn’t know what they expect him to say) and bringing him things they expect will get a visceral reaction for their oddity. He humours all of it, having a lot more fun than he lets on.

As they’re walking out of the dairy cooler, he catches Dream looking at him again. He squirms under its full consideration; it’s too strong of a gaze to be accidental. 

“What?” he asks. He pulls his sweater close to him, happy to have the additional layer when they’re in the frozen sections of the store. It also offers something of a protection from moments like these.

Dream doesn’t answer. Might have something to do with the people moving through the aisle, trying to open the freezer door to get to the pizzas and breaded wings. But even when they’re rejoined at the end and making their way to the checkout with a full cart, he continues to avoid the question.

Why he was looking isn’t important, not really. George does it too. He wants to know if Dream is thinking the same things as him; if the swell of emotion is supposed to insinuate what he wants it to. If it did, it might find the courage to say something instead of staring at Dream’s empty hand in the parking lot and wishing he could link it with his.

He fights his way out of his sweater when he walks through the door, sinking the floor behind the couch as his whole face blooms in frustration. From where it’s landed on the couch’s back, one sleeve tumbles down and onto his shoulder, a mockery of comfort.

  
  


His fingers tear through his suitcase, throwing its contents onto the bed and scooping deep into the bag’s stomach with their nails. He got a week into his visit before he realized that he should have a dedicated dirty laundry pile for when he gets home. Problem is, the shirt he’s looking for is nowhere to be seen. Not with his things or on the couch, nor under the mattress or in some other unlikely hiding place. 

It’s not like he’s _attached_ to it or anything but it would be nice to know where it went. The house is only so big and he wore it once. Apparently, that’s long enough to ruin it by spilling ketchup all over himself the night prior (though to be fair, it was Sapnap’s fault for shaking the bottle so hard before he gave it to him). If it’s in the bag, he doesn’t want it congregating with the clean items and creating a much bigger problem. He doesn’t think he could suffer the embarrassment of asking them for stuff he could borrow if he somehow ran out of clean shirts. 

Alas, nothing. He thinks about checking the living room again. He recalls taking it off at some point--he had mentioned how much cooler it was with it off, arousing a ruckus.

Oh. Right. Dream took it from him, saying something about him being a child because he knew it would incite his anger. George had changed into something else, and that was that.

With a despondent look at the mess he’ll have to clean up later, he leans around the doorframe to take a quick look down the hall. Dream’s door is open. His sheets are unmade and the monitor is off, or else in sleep mode. George pushes himself off the frame and makes his way out, hearing voices and the swell of dramatic background music that could be coming from the television.

“Hey, Dream?” he calls down the stairs, leaning on the handrail.

It takes a second before he hears the “yeah?” He hears the spring of the couch cushions release, followed by the muffled sound of feet on the hardwood floor.

“Have you hidden my shirt somewhere?”

“What shirt?” Dreams head comes into view, cocked to the side.

“The one you took from me yesterday.”

“It’s in your dresser. I did it with the laundry.”

George stares, already forgetting what he was going to say. “Are you kidding?”

“No?” Dream looks genuinely confused. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Sure enough, it’s there. A few articles of clothing join it, including a sweater, but not the one he brought. He can reconcile with the fact that they’re there but not the smell of the laundry detergent, which his nose can recognize but not associate as his. He can’t quite figure out where it’s from, until his memory comes back with the memory of being in Dream’s room.

He slams the drawer shut, wincing at the loud bang that must be audible from downstairs. One hand lingers on the knob, the other rising up to his mouth so that he can bite the side of his pointer nail. If he added a few more shirts and pairs of jeans, it would look like he lived here. His dresser, in his room, in his house. 

He leaves the contents of the drawer where they are, figuring it would mess with the fold and wrinkle it if he shoved it back into his bag. But it’s not like he’ll be wearing any of them soon.

A week of no streaming won’t take apart their careers. Heck, the anticipation alone might pull in more views. But they decide that it’s better to put in some hours to keep things consistent. George might get away with it but Dream is much too big of an internet personality to pull the plug and Sapnap’s got projects of his own that could use some time. 

And space. They could all use some space. It’s almost as if there’s electricity crackling over their heads whenever they try to interact. George is a disruption to their routine, a guest that has to be entertained, and a constant in their lives versus being an icon on their socials. Though Dream tries to put up a bit of resistance to leaving him on his own, George easily solves the problem by pushing him into his room and sitting against the door until he gives up.

That was a while ago. He’s since been sitting cross-legged on the front lawn and hoping to reason with this awkward situation he’s walked into. No discernable progress has been made, the opposite really. If only there was a dictionary for the things Dream does. There are the touches that George thinks are meant for him but always fall short, like the way he lowered his voice during last night’s movie marathon, leaning in close until their cheeks brushed. He would reciprocate if he knew they were trying to say something. Maybe they are, maybe it isn’t platonic and he should give in and move here so he can spend every day by his side. But if it isn’t, the costs outweigh the benefits.

It’s late in the day but he’s on the other side of the long shadows, in the direct rays of the sun. He can feel a burn coming on, dusting his cheeks with heat. He makes a judgement call and decides to go in, having accomplished nothing but torn up a semicircle of grass where he was seated. 

With both Dream and Sapnap nowhere to be seen, he’s still got time on his hands. He thinks about swiping something to eat from the kitchen and hunkering down in his room to watch some of his Youtube subscriptions, but can’t get much farther than the sink before that plan goes out the window. The stack of dirty dishes grows higher by the day, procrastinated on so they could keep up the momentum of doing things. The worst offenders have been left to soak, which isn’t much better. Much worse, actually.

If they were the dishes at home, he would gripe and moan and put it off until the last minute when there was nothing left to cook on or with, and then stall for a day with something microwaveable. Doing it now is more of a compulsion. He’d feel worse if he didn’t; he wouldn’t be pulling his weight around here if he pretended not to notice.

The sun is slowly tucking behind the horizon line as the day draws to an end. The whole of the world looks like it’s been spun in gold, wreathed in the ethereal effect of the natural light. He’s so used to seeing the streets being inundated with rain, gurgling as it funnels down sewer drains when it isn’t kicked up by passing cars onto unsuspecting pedestrians. It isn’t like nice weather is a foreign concept to him--and Dream has told him plenty about Florida’s wet summers to know this won’t last--but it’s hard not to admire the storybook picture that’s right outside their house whenever he opens a window. 

He’s at more peace of mind slowly working on that pile, going bit by bit until he’s done with utensils and onto the last of the big pans, which require more elbow grease. There’s nothing else to think about except work, and maybe that’s what he needed. He’s had no outlet. Maybe leaving his computer behind was coming here with one hand tied behind his back. The only thing he can do is think about Dream. No wonder he’s driving himself mad. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be doing that.” 

Speak of the devil. He’s got one hand shoved into his pocket and the other pointing at the utensil in George’s hand. George doesn’t even need to turn around to know the disgruntled look on his face is there.

So he deflects: “shouldn’t you be streaming?”

“Just finished. Put that down.”

“I’m done anyway,” he says, yanking on the drain and watching the water froth as it rushes to the opening. Some of the suds need to be rinsed out, but Dream has one hand on the faucet before George can even think of doing it.

“Back off. You’re a guest.”

“A guest that used these plates and glasses.” He picks up one glass, for no real reason other than to get on Dream’s nerves. It gets the desired response: Dream trying to take it back.

Holding it out of Dream’s reach is harder said than done. He’s got those long arms that can stretch out far. George tries his best to hide the glass by clutching it to his chest, but it’s futile. Dream’s hands are trying to claw their way under the gaps of his fingers, his arms hooking George from under his armpits.

George tries to struggle out of his hold. “You’re going to break it!”

“Then give it to me!” Dream says in his ear, his voice nothing but smile.

George’s socked feet can’t find friction on the floor, sliding him around as he tries to fend Dream away. He loses his footing entirely once Dream finds out he can pick him up, making him squeal loud enough to probably be heard three doors down. The longer they’re grappling, the more he can feel his self-control languish, and eventually it makes more sense to hand it over before Sapnap storms out of the room and yells at them.

Dream snatches it, a look of triumph aided by every feature. He makes a show of walking the glass to the far counter, furthest from George.

“That wasn’t so hard.”

In retaliation, George grabs a dish towel hooked over the oven handle, scooping a wet spatula from the rack. Some of the droplets run down his wrist, dropping off at the curve of his elbow.

“Hey, _hey._ Put it back.”

George points with the spatula, spraying water in every direction. “You can’t just leave them there.” 

“Air drying is a thing, George.”

“But think of how much better it’d be if you could just put it all away right now.”

“No.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Then I’ll just take all the towels away.”

“I’ll find something.” His mind starts racing. “You can’t stop me.”

“Fine. Then at least move over and let me help.”

George waits for him to say he’s joking. Not a single muscle on Dream’s face budges. “Hello? Are you going to let me?” He holds an open hand out. 

“I uh,” he takes a quick glance at the bare oven, “don’t know where the other towels are.”

Dream sighs, moving to the collection of cabinetry by the microwave and yanking open a drawer with a few bright fabrics inside. He joins George by the rack, his baggy sleeves bunched up around the elbow. They won’t stay in place. Two dishes later and they’re already slipping down, forcing him to stop and push them back up. His hand leaves behind a damp print.

They enter a truce, holding their words close to themselves as they work away at the dripping pile. It’s not uncomfortable. Dream doesn’t need to say anything to put him at ease; the sanctity of their time together is proof of a long friendship that doesn’t need to rely on verbal affirmations to be real.

“Could you imagine living in Florida?” Dream asks, staring out the window. The sun’s glow is outlining the side of his face, softening the curve of his jaw.

George sets down the pot he had in hand, buying himself a few more seconds. “Dunno. It’s a bit hot for me.”

“Aren’t you always complaining about how cold it is over there?”

He screws up his face. “Not in the summer. But even then, that’s different. I’m used to that.” He picks up the spaghetti strainer, sprinkled with water as gravity drains it out the bottom. A clean wipe gets most of it. Then it’s just a matter of drying the handle.

“You could get used to being here,” Dream mumbles. 

George sets aside the strainer, joining Dream in looking out the window. It is beautiful. Lush, full of life. Sun-drenched and tropical, like a never-ending vacation.

“Could you?” George says suddenly.

“Could I what?”

“Imagine me living here?”

Dream steps away to open the cupboard, stocking the highest shelf with the cups he finished drying. “I’m imagining it right now.”

George gently presses on his tongue with his teeth, trying to come up with something to say. George has nothing on the mind and only a damp towel in hand. The rack is empty.

  
  


The last day is, in a word, surreal.

Both Dream and Sapnap come to the realization that George has a flight tomorrow evening and have very different ways of coping with it. While Sapnap tries to make every moment count, there beside him at breakfast with arms circled around George’s neck, pressed close like they won’t get to do for a long while, Dream tries to deny that it’s happening. He’s there in every doorway and behind him whenever he turns around. Never short on tense words to throw his way either, unable to say what he’s mad at but perfectly fine putting everyone on edge as he works through it.

Spending the whole day together doesn’t mend any wounds. He’s not surprised to see Dream in his room when he goes upstairs to retire for the night, arms crossed as he watches George try to make order out of chaos.

“You don’t have to pack your stuff now.”

“I like to be ready. Plus, I can spend more time with you tomorrow.” He hopes it will pacify him.

Dream isn’t taking it. “Or, you could spend time with me right now.”

George rolls his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal.” Looking at Dream’s clenched jaw, it’s clear he doesn’t share his opinion.

“We’ve waited so long for this.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You don’t _have_ to go.”

“I have a flight booked.”

“You can stay longer. It’s legal. You won’t get in trouble.” 

George knows the rule about ninety days by heart. It’s become Dream’s scripture at this point.

“I got family. My job, my stuff...I can’t leave it behind.”

“You’re not leaving them behind. They’ll still be there.”

“If I stay a day then I’ll stay a week, and then before you know it, it’s become a month.”

“Is that bad?”

He stands straighter. “It’s not _bad,_ but I have responsibilities. You know that. You’re not stupid.” 

To his surprise, Dream doesn’t try to get the last word in. He leaves with a huff and what sounds like a door closing from down the hall.

With him gone, finishing up only takes a few minutes. Toiletries are in the bathroom and will stay there until tomorrow morning but besides that, it’s done. One look around the room and it’s as if he never lived here to begin with. It only took ten minutes.

Sobered up, he takes his leave, flicking the lights off before he goes so he can’t look back and keep thinking.

Dream’s a bit of a loose cannon right now but he’d hoped to see Sapnap downstairs so he could put his worries about being a bad friend to rest. Unfortunately, it’s as empty as it was when he left. The couch beckons him, flaunting its empty space and soft fabric. Lying down is hardly going to solve the problem, but it’s much more preferable to knocking on doors and trying to fix things when he knows it’s just going to be them running in circles. There’s only one way Dream is going to back down, and it involves George answering that question that’s been held over his head for months.

Remote in hand, he flicks through the channels until he finds something mundane enough to be good white noise. He hugs the throw pillow to him as the images power by, showing him cities he’s never known and faces so plain that they border on being familiar. It’s good junk food for the mind. Watching it lets him hit the pause button on everything else going on right now.

Two commercial breaks later and he becomes aware that there’s someone else in the room with him. George gets his elbow under him and lifts himself up, craning his neck over the edge of the couch to see Dream skulking around the edges of the corridor. His eyes are plastered to the screen but they waver when they notice the movement in his periphery.

“Dream?” George croaks. It gets too intensive to prop himself up, and he lowers himself back down. “C’mere.”

Fingers appear on the couch arm, curled around it hard enough to choke the stuffing out. George watches him take a seat on the end cushion, straightening his legs to make more room. With Dream leaning back, it’s tight; his legs are going to cramp if he keeps them stacked on top of each other. Eventually he just says fuck it, and moves one out from behind him by bending it at the knee so that his foot just pushes up against Dream’s thigh.

“Sorry for being an ass,” Dream says, looking anywhere but him.

“It’s fine.” 

Dream doesn’t know where to put his hands. They hover mid-air for a bit--stressful to deal with, because he can’t _not_ notice them there--before he lets out a sharp breath and curls it around George’s ankle. It should be inconspicuous; Dream did the same thing yesterday when the night was young and George had laid his legs on his lap without a second thought. But the day’s context is what charges it up. If it’s supposed to be a peace offering--a “let’s go back to normal”--, then it’s not working, because all George can think about is if it’s “normal” to want it and feel hopeful.

He’s still having difficulty dealing with the fact that Dream has the option of being physical with him, instead of being limited to the interpretative power of words. That said, he can see there’s something Dream wants to tell him but can’t. His silence is somewhat uncharacteristic of him; it isn’t like he’s shied away from rocking the boat in the past. If his intention is to apologize, that’s one thing, but George knows that it’s still unresolved. He’s still going to look for ways to convince him to change his mind.

They both want similar things, and he senses the frustration of knowing that but being denied a response. Running away won’t solve anything, he knows that. They’re going to lose an entire dimension of communication when they go back to using TeamSpeak and Discord. And for a long time, that helped him. It gave him something to hide behind. But he’s here now, he’s lost the excuse of ignorance. He knows what it’s like to have Dream smile so wide at him that his eyes crinkle. Going home now is going to do nothing but make him mourn that. 

“Did you have fun, at least?” Dream asks.

“I love being here with you guys. That’s not the issue.”

 _Then what is?_ is just waiting to be said, and George already has a safe answer ready. 

Dream releases George’s ankle, rubbing his hand on his own knee. “I get it. It’s easy for me to say: I already live here. I’m not the one expected to change everything.”

George scrambles for something to say back. “What if I asked you to come to the UK? Would you?”

“Of course,” Dream says, without hesitation.

“What about Sap?”

Dream’s chest puffs up as he laughs. “Sap can come too, if he wants. I don’t care where we are, as long as we’re together.”

He doesn’t want Dream to come to him, but it’s nice to know. It was never really about the location anyway.

“Dream?”

“Yeah?”

“I really do like being here.” He has no caveat prepared, no ‘but’ to complicate it with. So long as they’re within this confessional seal, he may as well be honest. 

“And I like you being here. You keep the house in order.”

“I did the dishes once.”

“Yeah but--I’m better when you’re around. I get to wake up knowing you’re here. It’s so much easier.”

He thumbs at a spec of lint on the couch. “Yeah. Same.”

“I know it makes me kinda selfish but I don’t like waiting. You’re here, and that’s great, but then you’re leaving so soon and it makes everything feel pointless.”

George flicks the lint away. “But it was good we did it, right? Now we know it works.”

“I think I always knew that.”

“Yeah but what if I was the worst roommate ever--”

“Not possible.”

“--I was this an absolute nightmare and you couldn’t stand having me around.”

“I’d still want you here. Always.”

He wants so badly to tell him, but his fear of rejection is forcing a bridle into his mouth. Dream can’t take this all away if he doesn’t know the reason why George’s mouse hesitates on the United States’ immigration page and the word residency. It’s precautionary. It’s safe. And it’s choking him.

He reciprocates by pressing a knee into Dream’s hip. Lightly, of course. A reminder that he’s there right now. If Dream let him, he’d be there forever.

“Is it okay if I stay here for the night? I don’t want to go back to the room,” he says.

“Of course.” Dream’s hand fidgets with the sleeve of his sweater. “Can I stay with you?”

George moves to make room in invitation. Dream obliges, taking the empty space against the couch’s back and anchoring George to his chest so he doesn’t fall off. George can feel the frantic pulses of his heart match his own as they arrange their bodies into place. 

By all accounts, he should be panicking. It’s not like him to be calm when something so _big_ is happening. But like a man possessed, he lies there, motionless. He’s able to slow his breathing, holding onto the feeling of Dream being there as everything else peels away. He can hear Dream trying to do the same.

It feels mutual. That thought puts him to sleep.

  
  


Dream almost refuses to let him go at the airport. There’s an acceptable length for a hug and he exceeds it by quite a bit. George, of course, is complicit in it. He’s the one crossing his arms behind his back, cheek squished into Dream’s clavicle.

“It’s not too late to tear that up,” Dream says, lowering his chin to gesture at the boarding pass in George’s hand. 

“Sap told me you were planning on locking your keys in the car.” There’s a chortle from behind them.

“Thought about it. You would have just called a taxi anyway.”

“Well duh.”

“I guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

George pulls back, widening his eyes in pretend surprise. “Next time? Who said anything about me visiting again?”

“I’m not talking about visiting. I mean next time: when you come to Florida with a visa.”

There’s a caw of excitement. “Did he say yes?” Sapnap asks.

“I didn’t say anything,” George tells him, his face fanned with heat. “We’ll see.”

Sapnap’s lips press tight. “Aw, come on! You got me excited there for a minute.”

“Seriously,” Dream teases George back to him by speaking into his ear, “come back soon. I’m gonna miss having you around the house.”

“I will. I promise.”

 _“Promise_ promise?” Dream says, like he’s five. He doesn’t look it though; George has never seen him more determined.

“Promise promise. You’ll wish you never asked.” 

The arm around his waist curls tighter. “Promise you’ll think about staying too?”

“Of course. Promise.”

He’d love to stay and tell Dream with his sweaty palms and cow eyes that he’s already made up his mind. He knew that from the second he woke up with arms around him. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be but here. In Florida and with him.

If only they had more time. He really does have to go home, and it would complicate everything to say it. It deserves to be heard when he’s already made headway on the immigration process. Right now it’s painful, but it will be worth seeing Dream’s face when he does find out. He can already hear his celebratory cheer.

He already said goodbye to Sapnap, but George gives him an apologetic side hug as he leaves, for having to endure seeing him and Dream together for those few moments.

“See you soon,” is the last thing Sapnap says to him. He leaves George with a pat on the arm and a thin smile that can’t hide his disappointment.

Both of them stand back to wave at him as he leaves. managing to be remarkable in a crowd of nobodies. He can’t resist the temptation of looking back, even with the sense of loss it inflicts. It’s like being torn in two.

_` Just touched down.,`_

He’s already got Dream’s contact open and he’s only been at the terminal for about a minute. He said he would reach out “the second he landed on British soil” and addle-brained as he is right now, he’s chosen to take it literally. Thank goodness for autocorrect or it would have been complete gibberish.

He can’t even pocket the phone before it buzzes again, the home screen lighting up with a text from Dream.

_` Aw` _

`y` _`ou must be tired` _

George is about to respond when the ellipses pop up again.

_` btw` _

Dream attaches an image. Once it loads in, he sees his two shirts and a sweater on a bed not his own.

_` you forgot your shit here` _

He exhales loudly. He knew he’d forget. Should’ve written on a sticky note and pinned it to the door.

_` sorry` _

_` don’t apologize` _

_`just come back soon to pick them up :)` _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only posting as Anonymous because I'm organizing stuff on my main. Please don't be afraid to comment! I will read and respond to everything. :]


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